("You're what I couldn’t find, a totally amazing mind, so understanding and so kind. You're everything to me…")…Cranberries

For Tuyet, Katrina, KaSandra, and Luc

my inspiration

Chapter Thirty

Hollenbeck Station…Tuesday, Feb 24, 2009…7:00pm

This wasn't at all what Oscar had expected to find on the whozie-whats-it, the what-do-ya-call-it, the flash drive, yeah that's it, the flash drive! It was the electronic thing that Rebecca Tran found on the UCLA campus where Ernie Namura bought the farm, the unlucky lab rat chasing after Dr. Judy Looney. That was a definite case of wrong place, wrong time. Looks like the gadget wasn't the load of crapola Oscar expected it to be, not by a long shot. What was stored on that insignificant looking piece of plastic was dangerous!

All Oscar had expected to find on that thing was the dead geek's homework and his list of 'sure things,' nothing really useful. However, spread out on the desk in front of him was a pretty impressive list of names, dates, times, and what were probably coded deeds. Oscar knew instantly what he was looking at. This was an accounting record, a book of receipts, a Pearl Harbor file if you will, compiled by someone either very cautious or very clever, an opportunist. Oscar suspected the latter and immediately thought of the investigation into the murder of an Asian call girl in Little Tokyo, the same investigation that Whitey Roode was sticking his big nose into. Apparently the numbskull wasn't on a snipe hunt after all. If Whitey knows what's on the flash drive then he knows Judy Looney is in BIG TROUBLE!

Oscar sighed heavily and leaned back, setting off a fanfare of creaking joints in both his old leather chair and his even older leather body. He suddenly realized that he played right into Whitey's hand by sending him with Iggie and Becca to fetch Dr. Looney in Vegas. Whoever killed the hooker in Little Tokyo also murdered the kid at UCLA, he knew that now. He'd sent his rag tag crew right into harms way, and all on the tax payer's nickel. Oscar was pissed at himself, he was smarter than this. Not exactly the "A" Team, they were more like "F Troop." Actually to be fair, at least for the moment, Oscar left Rebecca Tran off of that team's roster. He had a good feeling about her, she had real potential. The young lady was a lot smarter then her dumbass partner and that washout PI. He'd been in the law enforcement business a long time and he fancied himself a better than average judge of character, he could say without fear of contradiction that he'd heard it all and seen it all. If Rebecca Tran survived her current association with those two numbskulls Roode & Ingram, she was going places. Partnering her with Iggie was a mistake and Oscar would right that wrong as soon as she got back to LA.

Oscar picked up the pages and studied the data closely. He recognized several of the names on the list right away and frankly wasn't surprised to find them there. After few moments he stopped reading, convinced this document was legit. It was likely an accounting of services rendered by the Little Tokyo murder victim, Sally November. The question was why was it worth killing for? Leaking this list would be embarrassing for sure, but sex for sale was more immoral than illegal. How many times have powerful men been caught with their pants down and still remained powerful? A lot, that's how many, from corporate giants, to clergy, to leaders of State. Oscar could think of at least two American Presidents. No, there was something more to this particular list and these particular codes. The answer would be with whomever Sally November was working for or more the point, double crossing. What made this list worth killing for? It didn't make any sense to Oscar, unless? Wait a sec, that's it, the flash drive was bait, only the wrong fish bit. Interesting, why did Judy Looney run, why so abruptly, and why in the dead of night right after Ernie Namura was left face down in a puddle of his own blood? What was the link between her and that jack-hole Whitey Roode? What were they up to?

All of a sudden Lt. Celaya regretted sending the aforementioned nincompoops to Las Vegas all on their own. Oscar replaced the papers into the manila folder and pushed it away from him. He slapped his desktop with both palms, hard enough to draw a few sideways glances from the squad room on the other side of his office window. He ignored the curious looks and picked up the handset from the desk phone cradle. He punched the Vegas area code as he flipped through his rolodex for the rest of Wally Price's phone number. Wally's phone rang five times on the other end of the line before auto transferring to the desk sergeant.

"LVMPD, Sgt. Hernandez," the officer answered.

"Yeah, listen this Lieutenant Oscar Celaya, LAPD, I'm trying to reach Detective Sergeant Wally Price please. Can you locate him for me or give me his cell phone number?" Oscar asked in a nicer tone than his current mood dictated.

"Sergeant Price is indisposed sir. Would you like to leave a message or your call back number?" That was the wrong answer.

"INDISPOSED!" hollered Lt. Celaya.

"You're goddamn right I want to leave a message. You tell Price to call me ASAP, he has the fucking number! And sergeant, if I don't her from that shit heel in five minutes or less it'll be YOUR ASS! If you value those stripes on your sleeve Hernandez don't waste time replying and find the man, you got it!" bellowed the frustrated police lieutenant from Los Angeles.

Oscar gently hung up the phone, setting the handset back in the cradle as if he were defusing a bomb. Leaning back in his chair he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling, mentally decompressing while he waited for Wally Price to call back. Blowing off steam like that was his methodology to ward off heart attacks. He learned early in his career that stress was the silent killer of cops. The guys that held everything inside sooner or later either stroked out naturally or ate their gun unnaturally. He closed his eyes and went to his happy place with his bossy young wife. He'd waited a long time for happiness to come into his rough and tumble life and a fiery ginger fifteen years his junior. Olivia Celaya was a widow with three kids when they met five years ago. It was the second marriage for both of them.

She and the children changed his life and made him whole. They brought out a sense of decency that the job had robbed him of long ago. They made him feel human again, and for the first time in his life he could honestly say that he was happy. Olivia was his rock, a hard shell with a soft center. She could be bitchy but you never doubted her love, it was deep and it was forever. Oscar was a lucky man and he knew it. Truth be told so was she. The phone rang loudly, snapping Oscar out of his daydream. He opened his eyes slowly and checked his wrist watch; it had been five minutes exactly since he spoke with the desk sergeant in Las Vegas. Leaning forward he slapped the phone handset and it flew up and into his outstretched hand.

"Price?" he asked.

"In the flesh Lieutenant, what can I do ya for?" replied Wally Price sarcastically.

"Cut the crap for starters and let me talk to Roode, I know he's there listening."

"Actually he's not LT. We had some trouble on this end."

"Where is he?"

"He's with Dr. Looney and Detective Ingram."

"Where's Detective Tran?"

"Right here," Wally said, handing Becca the phone.

"It's for you," he said. Becca took the telephone from him, "Hello?"

"Hello Rebecca. Very slowly and leaving nothing out, not one detail, tell me what the hell is going on out there," Oscar said gently but sternly, like he was talking to his fourteen year-old step daughter, Katrina. Becca swallowed hard and began recanting the afternoon's events, beginning with the grizzly murder of Whitey's ex-wife.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," whispered Oscar to the walls of his office.



("Love me two times girl, one for tomorrow, one just for today. Love two times babe, I'm goin away…")…The Doors

For Tuyet, Katrina, KaSandra, and Luc

my inspiration

Chapter Twenty-nine

Union Plaza Hotel…Room 3023...Tuesday, Feb 24, 2009…5:00pm

Wally had left Judy in the Hotel security holding cell with half a dozen uniformed officers, all of whom he knew personally. He wasn't taking any chances, this was some serious shit. He looked around the room which had been closed off with yellow barrier tape and shook his head slowly. What a fucking mess! The poor thing put up quite a fight he thought before whoever did this went to work on her, or him, whatever, that didn't matter much at this point. Suffice to say that whatever services the family plans will have to include a closed casket, that's for damn sure! A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway gesturing for him to join her. Wally figured she was here to tell him that Whitey and Iggie were downstairs. He glanced at his watch and noted that they were late. There must have been more traffic then he'd allowed for. Iggie was sure to mention that the little weasel.

"What is it Shaw," he asked the uniform.

"There's a couple of LAPD shields and a Joe citizen in the lobby asking for you," answered the tall blonde officer.

"Alright, go back and tell em I'll be down in a minute," Wally instructed using the handkerchief from his coat pocket to mop some perspiration from his brow.

The room was air-conditioned well enough but this much gore brought on the stress sweats. Wally had only met Rhonda once. It was at one of Whitey's poker games way before their divorce, back when 'he' was a 'she'. Under these grizzly circumstances he couldn't swear that what he was looking at was the former Mrs. Roode. He was pretty sure, but not positive. What was left of the poor soul was scattered around the bloody room in pieces. Breaking the news to Whitey would be rough but breaking the news to Dr. Looney would be rougher. Wally was relieved that that task would fall to his old pal. The big detective walked over to the nightstand nearest and took noted the time on the face of the digital clock. It was frozen at 1:15pm, busted by something very heavy.

Wally looked down at a thick terrycloth bath towel sprawled on the floor beside the table. It was still damp and was one of the few items in the room that wasn't soiled with blood. The victim had been attacked here after showering, that seemed obvious. There was a struggle and the clock got busted in the process. Likely the perp tossed the victim into the center of the room and went to work on him/her. There were no other signs of struggle…why? Was the vic drugged or just terrified? Neither was a pleasant thought. Wally hated these kinds of slaughterhouse scenes. He'd seen similar scenes overseas back in the shit, entire villages exterminated by the evil men do. Helpless human beings preyed upon by other human beings, for what, a cause? "Thou shalt not kill" wasn't that a commandment in the Christian world he'd been raised in? It was, but he'd ignored it like a good soldier is conditioned to. Maybe this career path is his penance for forgetting that? Maybe…

Wally took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of an open wallet on the floor. There was a California driver's license halfway exposed showing him half of a photo. That would have to do for now, at least until the coroner could make a positive ID of John/Jane Doe. He returned the phone to his pocket and left the room, time to see what was what with Whitey and the LAPD.

LVMPD Motor Pool...Tuesday, Feb 24, 2009…5:30pm

Shift changes are always chaotic at police precincts, what with patrol cars coming and going, off duty officers rushing home to the family or out to the casinos for a chance to win the lottery Vegas-style and escape the law enforcement racket. It made for a good place to hide out in plain sight, not that I needed any such distraction, but chaos always makes it easier for one to blend in, especially when one is dressed for the part. Queer how humans think there is safety in numbers. There isn't you know, not if someone is committed and determined to make something bad happen. Hasn't that fact been proven time and time again in places like Columbine, Beirut, or the World Trade Center? Anyway, it has been my experience that human beings tend to mind their own business while going about their business, especially if one gives them no cause to do otherwise. On the few occasions where I have run into a Good Samaritan or Nosey-Nellie I just used them as a wet stone for my blade, the fools!

Enough pontificating, I am boring myself. What I seek should be in the evidence room or possibly within a computer lab of some sort, depending on the level of sophistication in this berg. Granted it's not Scotland Yard, that's for certain, but that would be an unfair expectation. No Constables here, just Cowboys. I expect there is an equal amount of chaos inside so I anticipate no problems maneuvering at will once I enter the building. Still, a good soldier is a prepared soldier, so my weapon will remain unstrapped in the bulky leather 'holster' part of my costume. Why are Americans so enamored with firepower? No wonder the world sees the USA as a warrior nation. Well you know what they say; "brains trump brawn 99 times out of 100." Curious thought but no concern of mine, I have work to do now.

Eliminating the Turk had cost me precious moments, but it had been necessary. I had arrived on that scene just in time to intervene; otherwise Dr. Looney would be as dead as her unholy mate right now. Fortunately I knew better than to trust the good doctor's safety to this rube friend of Roode's. The man may be a thirty year veteran but he's still an amateur! She would be safe for now, at least until I recover the flash drive that she deciphered. I must say I am quite embarrassed for assuming her incompetent. She surprised me. I think I gasped audibly when I overheard Roode explaining everything to his policeman friend. Thank goodness telephony has always been a hobby of mine. Those skills have come in handy on more than one occasion, like this one. Still I must be slipping. I should have expected technology to advance beyond my ability to keep up. No matter, I know what I am looking for and once I have it I will erase all links to it. There will be nothing to worry about. Once again, a good soldier is a prepared soldier and all that rubbish.

Ahhh, Mei Li, my little butterfly. You were more clever than I gave you credit for. That will be the last time I allow anyone close enough to do me real harm. I taught you well little flower, apparently too well. I allowed you to think yourself my equal as if that were possible, silly child. The Turk, Hassan, saved me the task of dealing with your foolish ambitions. That should have been my pleasure. Still, I wish you had not given him cause to do so. I do so miss your company my dear, in spite of your betrayal. You were the only thing that I ever loved more than my work and myself. I look forward to personally explaining that to Whitey Roode right after I answer his twenty questions, shortly before his inevitable demise. Satisfying his curiosity is an uncharacteristic gesture on my part to be sure, but strangely I feel that he's owed something after what Hassan's done to the abomination that was his ex-wife. Is that a sign of weakness? Yes, it is. Belay that gesture then, he will just die, but not right away…